


let it go (paint my body gold)

by lunarism



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, I rly don't know what's in this, M/M, Miya Atsumu paints in his spare time, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, Sakusa Kiyoomi has a crush !!!, Sakusa Kiyoomi-centric, idk what's in here folks, loll !!, lowkey, sorry - Freeform, they paint, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:13:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27110998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunarism/pseuds/lunarism
Summary: It becomes a routine for them.Sometimes they go grocery shopping and make dinner together, other times they end up talking until Sakusa feels like his own shower and bed is calling him. Every single time Sakusa gets home, shrugs his coat off, balls it up, and proceeds to scream profusely into the fabric for a few minutes.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 20
Kudos: 317





	let it go (paint my body gold)

**Author's Note:**

> title from body gold by oh wonder :P

Bokuto trips as he rounds the corner into Atsumu’s hallway, right foot over left and straight into Atsumu’s bedroom. Sakusa watches the mess of orange follow him into said room, both concern and amusement etching their way ever so slightly to rosy cheeks. 

Frankly, Atsumu’s apartment is a mess, but the man himself is too far into his third beer to notice the spilled cider and the five people opening all of his cupboards and drawers. This is what you get when you offer your home to 7 other grown men; you get a Meian in your medicine cabinet. Sakusa’s head hurts, and it isn’t from the one drink he’s been nursing as he talks to an Inunaki that won’t even remember the conversation come tomorrow, rather it’s from a Bokuto shouting, “TSUMTSUM YOU PAINT?,” and a Hinata giggling about the very possibility that Miya Atsumu, of all people, would ever pick up a paintbrush. 

With that, Sakusa sees himself out, ears tinting pink as he steps into the night, fresh air distinctly opposite from the stuffy confines of Miya’s two-bedroom.

* * *

Sakusa curses to himself as he checks the weather app on his phone; 80% chance of rain every hour after 11AM. Whilst it’s currently only 9AM and it’s MSBY’s off-day and he doesn’t _technically_ need to leave the house today, he _wants_ to go to the store and get ingredients for a recipe that Komori wants him to attempt.

“I don’t know where I’m going wrong but I _am_ going wrong and you will figure that out _for_ me,” Sakusa quotes, digging around in his bag for his umbrella. His hand does the motions twice, swooping tail to tail, top to bottom, in each pocket, before giving up because it could only realistically be in one place, Miya Atsumu’s. 

He sighs, a crease forming in his brow as he grabs his shopping bags and coat, readying himself for Atsumu and whatever assholery he’s ready to quip back to Sakusa when he realises, ‘Aww, did Omi-kun forget his ‘lil brolly” sad face emoticon, broken heart emoticon. 

It’s surprisingly not what he’s greeted with when Atsumu hoists the door open, paint splattered fingers stretched to avoid the door handle as his foot wedges into the gap between the front door and Sakusa. There’s surprise plastered across his face accompanying the cyan resting across his cheek.

“Sorry, I left my umbrella here yesterday,” and, “Omi-kun ya can come in if ya want,” smash together disgustingly, syllables awkward from the unexpectedness of Sakusa’s visit and the unexpectedness of Atsumu actually having cleaned his apartment after a gathering like that whilst in a state to match. 

“I can put all m’ shit away, jus’ give me a min,” Atsumu opens the door wider for Sakusa to step through, wiping his hands on his shirt as he picks up a sketchbook from the floor and places it on the side. Sakusa takes a glance at it, umbrella momentarily forgotten until he sees it hanging from a coat hook above Atsumu’s painting. 

Sakusa gravitates towards the umbrella, because it belongs to him, and consequently towards the painting, because, “what’s that meant to be?”, which is rude, Kiyoomi. _Rude_. But Atsumu doesn't seem to mind, instead pointing at the Ocean Wildlife documentary on his television and smiling through the word, “water’. He doesn’t quite know how to respond, he doesn’t even know if he’s allowed to pick up his umbrella yet so he can leave, but a drawn out “Omi-kun, it’s not meant t’ be amazing! I’m not that good! I don’t get t’ paint often,” forces him out of his own headspace. 

“I see,” is, for some reason, the only thing Sakusa can reply, earning him another whine, “what?” Sakusa asks, stupidly. 

“I can feel ya judgin’ me…” comes Atsumu’s response, quieter, more reserved than their usual back-and-forth.

Sakusa huffs a laugh that is only decipherable as a laugh to people like Komori, who quite literally grew up with him, as he grabs his umbrella, “I am always, _always_ , judging you. See ya.” Sakusa makes a quick exit. 

* * *

Sakusa does not want to snoop; this is what he tells himself as he, along with the rest of the team, reopen Atsumu’s cupboards and draws. Towards 11PM, Sakusa finds himself in a room he hasn’t been in before, one drastically cleaner than just about the rest of Atsumu’s humble abode. Sakusa feels like he can breathe. He feels like he can breathe up until he sees the stupid ‘water’ painting on a pinboard right above a desk, and upon further inspection of the room he realises it likely isn’t just the guest room. 

It’s a nice painting, if he’s being honest, just very abstract. Carefree. Something that you could put on ebay for about a grand and end up auctioning off for ten times that. 

“Ya likin’ the view, Omiomi,” the voice rings in his ears, sober. 

“It’s… okay,” he doesn’t mean to sound like a dick, but he does nonetheless. Atsumu, again, doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Ya can hate it, Omiomi,” he laughs, genuine, “but I had fun making it, ‘n’ so it makes me happy, ‘n’ so its on m’ wall fer me t’ see whenever I so please”. 

“I don’t hate it,” Sakusa defends, because whilst he is a dick, he doesn’t want to seem like one at this moment in time, for some reason. Plus, he doesn’t hate it. 

“Then why don’tcha join me sometime, it'd be fun,” Atsumu, again, is genuine. Sakusa isn’t quite sure what to make of this as he fiddles the hem of his sleeve, leaning back onto Atsumu’s desk as he stares the other down with a harsh, “no’.

“What’d ya have against it, it’d be a blast. Just two dudes and a shitload of paint,” Atsumu offers, and sakusa laughs, genuine. 

“It’s just… messy. Too much of a hassle,” and as that isn’t good enough of an excuse, Atsumu pushes, because, “that’s the joy of painting! Huh, Omi-kun?”

“Absolutely not,” Sakusa finalises, smirking under his mask as he exists, leaving all that is Miya Atsumu in his wake.

* * *

Sakusa Kiyoomi is a diligent man. He is clean, he is organised, he is making a habit out of this umbrella-forgetting-at-Miya-Atsumu’s-house thing. 

He cannot make a habit out of this.

Especially when he shows up to Miya Atsumu’s house at 11AM, unenthusiastic umbrella-related apology lacing the tip of his tongue, to be greeted by said Miya Atsumu, covered top to toe in paint. 

“You’re disgusting.”

“Ah, Omi-kun, ‘s always nice ‘avin’ ya around, huh?” he’s wiping his hands on a wet towel, foot wedged between Sakusa and the door, much like it was the first time he’d forgotten the dastardly object. 

“I… my umbrella,” Kiyoomi points out, looking between Atsumu’s stupid face, Atsumu’s stupid wet towel, and Atsumu’s stupid striped socks. Atsumu’s mouth forms an O and his eyebrows shoot up. Atsumu’s stupider face. 

“Right, yeah, come in ‘s on th’ table,” Atsumu makes his way back to his spot on the floor, “dyu wanna join me Omi-kun?” 

And for some reason, maybe because he feels bad for calling Atsumu disgusting right as soon as Atsumu answered the door, he says, “okay,” and toes his shoes off. 

It’s surprisingly quiet, which is nice for Sakusa and his concentration on the shape of the coffee stains on Atsumu’s table. Sakusa thinks brown is a calm colour. He likes the layering of browns in the coffee stains on the table. He breaks the silence with an, “I suck,” and Atsumu barks out a laugh.

“Yeah, but are ya havin’ fun? Huh, Omi?” Atsumu’s voice is almost grating after the silence, but that’s Sakusa’s fault for breaking it. 

He looks back at his shitty brown circles and mutters a, “yeah,” under his breath. 

* * *

Sakusa had genuinely enjoyed the little painting-escapade he’d taken with Miya Atsumu. So much so that he agrees to another round. Sakusa tells himself it’s solely because he _wants_ to get better at painting and it’s not because hanging out with Atsumu was kind of fun. 

Inspiration comes in the form of the water fixture that Sakusa can see in the park near Atsumu’s apartment. It’s stereotypical, and he’d make fun of Atsumu for doing the same thing, but the way the afternoon sun glistens over the water and the way gold and silver reflects off of the waves makes Sakusa want to bathe in it until he sees the moss and cracked stone that lines the fountain. 

Sakusa can’t defend himself when Atsumu makes fun of him for painting the fountain. Mostly because Atsumu whips out an old painting of his, “from around the first few weeks of settling into this place,” it’s the fountain. Sakusa makes fun of him, and Atsumu mocks Sakusa but they both end up laughing in the end. 

* * *

Atsumu’s loitering in the locker room after practice, swinging his bag sideways in front of him as he waits for Sakusa, who questions him directly as to why he hasn’t already gone home.

“Do you want to come with me to the arts store?” There’s a random crafts shop around the corner of Atsumu’s apartment complex, he recalls. Sakusa passes it whenever he walks between his and Atsumu’s homes. If he hadn’t already showered, he might’ve said no, but there’s this prickling in his gut that reminds him of something akin to guilt when he remembers that he’s been leeching off of Atsumu’s supplies for the past month and a bit. 

* * *

Again he’s at Atsumu’s, canvas painted orange and gold to match the afternoon sun setting into Atsumu’s hair, highlighting it golden compared to its now usual sandy blond.

Kiyoomi swipes his brush, coral flowing between a sunkissed pink and yellow as he looks back up to find the same kiss of the sun bloomed on Atsumu’s skin. It’s pretty, he decides, though he can’t quite tell if this colour’s technically pink or technically orange. It’s pretty nonetheless. 

He finds Atsumu distracted by his painting. Atsumu, wide eyed, stares at his painting, and Sakusa can see the brown flexing gold in the sun’s light. 

“Omi-kun that’s really pretty,” Atsumu doesn’t notice Sakusa admiring him. Sakusa doesn’t notice that that’s what he’s even doing. Sakusa would cringe at the fact that he’s found a muse in Miya Atsumu.

“Thanks,” he mutters, swirling his paintbrush in a water pot and putting it on the side before getting up to wash his hands and rifle through Atsumu’s fridge for dinner. 

Atsumu is as gifted with a frying pan as he is with a paint brush, which is, to say the least, not terrible. It’s surprising to Sakusa, how Atsumu actually does know how to make something besides bacon and eggs, but he’s not complaining. They sit and eat and chat, and their paintings lay together drying on the coffee table; oranges next to blues. 

* * *

When Sakusa gets home he pins up the painting on his cork board, the stupid orangey-gold looking out of place in the blue-grey of his bedroom. A pop of colour against darkness. Sakusa remembers the flecks of gold that floated in the darkness of Atsumu’s eyes. He remembers the sunlight casting through Atsumu’s blond and melting into the tan of his skin. Sakusa remembers gold dancing across Atsumu’s very being and then Sakusa realises that he cannot stop thinking about Miya _fucking_ Atsumu. 

Sakusa’s halfway through his shower, scrubbing his skin raw. Because why the fuck, _how the fuck,_ has the thought of Miya Atsumu infiltrated so deep into his very veins that he feels the need to crawl out of his own skin to stop himself from thinking of him any longer. 

He scrubs and scrubs until he’s spotless, squeaky clean, but gold remains on his corkboard feeding his mind with thoughts of _him_.

* * *

It becomes a routine for them. Sakusa comes over every other week on their off-day to paint and Atsumu lets him. Sometimes they go grocery shopping and make dinner together, other times they end up talking until Sakusa feels like his own shower and bed is calling him. Every single time Sakusa gets home, shrugs his coat off, balls it up, and proceeds to scream profusely into the fabric for a few minutes, before taking a shower and getting properly into his bedtime routine.

* * *

“Why did you start painting?” Sakusa’s cleaning the brushes in the kitchen sink, sleeves rolled up to avoid the splashing water. Their paintings are drying on the table in the living room, where Atsumu’s folding up the sheet that they sat on and putting paints away. 

“Because ‘Samu stopped playin’,” he doesn’t elaborate until he looks at the kitchen and Sakusa’s staring at him to do so, “I was just… really angry ‘bout it, I guess. Painted his desk shittily ‘n’ it was fun,” there’s a smile on his face. 

“I see,” is again all that Sakusa offers, placing the paintbrush he was washing onto a towel and then continuing onto the next one to clean. 

“I don’t know why I did _that_ , he hated me for it for a while but ended up keepin’ it anyway. It’s still there at Ma’s house,” he shoves into the kitchen, filtering through the fridge to get ingredients for their dinner. 

“What did you paint?” Sakusa’s done with the brushes so he pulls the towel drying them to the side, wipes down the counter, then washes his hands again in preparation to help Atsumu with the food. 

“Foxes,” Atsumu’s struggling with a can opener, which Sakusa takes from him to fiddle with instead, “‘n’ then I just… was angry fer a long time ‘n’ had so much paint from art class that I never used ‘n’ so… I don’t know it just made sense y’know.”

“I guess so,” Sakusa manages to open the can.

“Yeah, but y’know… He’s happy with what he’s doin’... fuckin’ sussessful too. It’s whatever now. If he’s happy, I’m happy,” Sakusa smirks, prompting Atsumu’s, “DON’T TELL ‘IM I SAID THA’, OMI-KUN,” and Sakusa lets himself laugh at the disaster that is Miya Atsumu cutting up a carrot.

* * *

His eyes now naturally gravitate to where Atsumu usually sits, on the floor just under the window in his living room. He’s admiring his work, gold glimmering in the refractions of the streetlights outside. The painting’s majorly greyscale, as is Sakusa’s in the dreary December eve, but there are specks of gold that cluster together on occasion, mimicking the stars. 

Kiyoomi scans Atsumu, from the way his knees bend and tuck under his chin, to the curve of his spine against the wall, to the stretch of his fingers as they move flimsy paper around and then stretch and contract and stretch again over Atsumu’s knees. Sakusa should barely be able to decipher Atsumu’s being, yet he sees the slope of his nose and the dip of his cupid's bow and the way his eyelashes frame his eyes. 

Harsh shadows wrap around Atsumu’s very being but soften him all the same. The street lamps illuminate the fluff of Atsumu’s hair, shining yellowish-gold through it, reminiscent of Atsumu’s high school years, but Sakusa doesn’t nearly hate it as much. 

Atsumu’s eye’s flick up to where Sakusa’s watching him, rose spreading evenly across his cheeks as his lips curve up slightly. Sakusa misses this in favour of looking away quickly because he was _not_ watching Miya Atsumu. 

They play a game. That game when you look at someone and then they look at you and then you look away and then you look back and then they’re still looking at you, the tips of their ears redder than before. It’s almost awkward, the way the silence has carried itself through this particular session of theirs. It’s never usually this quiet, or this dark. The fact that he’s still at Atsumu’s apartment rather than having left a few hours ago is strange enough. 

Atsumu coughs and Sakusa thinks he’s ready to kick him out of his apartment for the night, but instead Atsumu offers a, “dyu wanna see it?” in regards to his new painting and Sakusa just shuffles closer to get a look. They’re in each other's bubbles, each other's personal spaces when Sakusa moves closer and the fabric of his sweatpants brush the fabric of Atsumu’s. 

The painting itself is nice, gold on grey. The gold shimmers, not just on the paper, but on Atsumu’s hands, his arms, on some of his shirt. He’s gotten paint everywhere, as usual. 

“Is it new? The paint, I mean,” Sakusa offers into the quiet. Atsumu places the painting down on the table next to him, admiring it one last time with a soft smile and then grabbing the bottle of gold next to him to show to Sakusa.

“Yeah, ‘ere you can look,” Atsumu reaches his hand out, brushing gold onto Sakusa’s and Sakusa freezes for a moment because Atsumu’s _warm_. He’s warm and Sakusa maybe wants to feel that heat again. It scares him. 

There’s panic in Atsumu’s eyes, Sakusa doesn’t know why until Atsumu’s blurting out, “fuck, sorry it’s still the cheap shit ya can wash off. I promise, fuck,” Atsumu bites his lip until Sakusa cuts him off with a shake of his head and a quirk of his lips upwards. 

“It’s okay, don’t worry.”

Atsumu’s still fretting slightly, picking dried paint off of his hands. Whatever they were watching on the T.V. finished long ago. It’s raining now so Sakusa shouldn’t forget his umbrella when he eventually decides to leave. Atsumu’s quiet, watching the end credits roll over on the T.V., Sakusa knows this because his eyes once again gravitate to the other. 

He’s closer now, which technically is Sakusa’s doing. Here Sakusa can see the clean cut of his fingernails, the soft freckles dotting down his neck, and the spread of each individual eyelash. He can see when Atsumu blinks once towards the T.V. and then once towards Sakusa, turning his head to face him. And he’s so close that Sakusa can see the dampness of his lips when Atsumu’s tounge darts out to wet them before Sakusa’s eyes flick up to watch Atsumu’s, which are staring at his own. 

They’re so close, and Atsumu’s _so_ warm. 

If Sakusa were in Atsumu’s place, he’d see where his teeth pick and pull at the dryness of his lips, the dust of pink across his face and down his neck, and the bob of his Adam's apple when he tries to swallow the tension. But Sakusa is not in Atsumu’s place, and instead watches Atsumu’s eyes flicker everywhere but Sakusa until they land on his lips. 

They’ve been inching closer and closer and now, in the proximity of each other’s heat, are they scared. There’s a furrow in Atsumu’s brow and something else behind the glaze of his eyes that Sakusa can’t quite depict from his own short glances in the other’s direction. 

Sakusa watches Atsumu shift and turn his body to face Sakusa’s properly, and Sakusa leans back to rest his spine on the leg of the sofa behind him, hoping the casualness of his positioning will massage whatever this _tension_ is out of the room. His positioning brings him closer again to Miya who now just looks at him, lips pursed and then a, “so…” draws out. 

It’s silent again. 

“Atsumu,” it forces the other’s attention onto him and Sakusa’s question gets locked in his throat until he sees the other nod,

“can I kiss you?”

“Please,” Atsumu breathes out.

And then Atsumu's lips find his in the darkness and it feels like liquid gold. 

**Author's Note:**

> hi yh i wrote this instead of doing anything else that I have to do as a functioning student and am therefore approx like 3 weeks behind on my seminar notes but that's fine lol uh yh im in the process of moving ao3 accounts eventho I did only post like one fic on my other one but that's whatever I love these two losers n I like the idea of Sakusa having a Fat Crush on Atsumu and not even realising it tee hee :))
> 
> anyway hope u enjoyed kudos + comments much appreciated <3


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